The Reaper

Prologue

The cat froze, suppressing its instinct to run, and peered into the swirling gloom towards the noise. To break cover, even in this fog, could be its undoing. That’s what its own prey did. That’s when it had them. The animal stared, unblinking, head locked in the direction of the approaching footfall.

From the gasps of fog a figure emerged as though exhaled from the bowels of the earth. The boy was tall and though his clothes were baggy, he was identifiably lean as the cold breeze folded his roomy, low-slung trousers around his legs. He scuffed his Nikes along the rutted pavement, as though wiping something from them, before stopping to sniff the air. The peak of his grimy baseball cap came up as he looked around, sensing the animal nearby.

For a second he stopped hunching himself against the cold and looked towards the cat. He saw its eyes and stood perfectly still.

Softly the rumble in the boy’s throat grew until his armoury was fully loaded and he let fly. An arc of spittle landed near the cat’s front paws, splashing its legs. The cat tensed then leapt to the side, wide-eyed.

To banish any chance of feline forgiveness, the boy darted towards the animal and aimed a kick at its retreating rear.

‘Here puss puss,’ coaxed the boy bending down to click his fingers, scouring the dark ground for missiles. Surprisingly there were none. The boy had alighted upon the only spot on Derby’s Drayfin Estate that wasn’t crumbling.

‘Shit.’ The boy continued to grope but with dwindling enthusiasm. He cursed the absence of street lighting, forgetting it had been he and his crew who’d spent a diligent evening the month before breaking as many as they could find still working. The only illumination now shone from limp Christmas lights winking out from the odd door and window. No-one on the estate put on much of a show at this time of year. It didn’t do to advertise.

The boy stood up without ammunition and shrugged his shoulders. The cat had already taken the hint. No point trying to catch the little sod anyway–he’d run out of lighter fuel. Plus it was no fun torching the little bastards without your crew there to see it.

He peered down at his pale hand clutching an old tab end from the ground. Too big to throw, so he buried it deep in the pocket of his Stone Island jacket for future consumption.

After a noisy piss into a puddle–pissing quietly didn’t unsettle nervous residents–he adjusted his baseball cap and hunched himself into the position offering greatest protection against the biting wind. By happy coincidence, it was also the posture designed to radiate maximum menace, the posture of choice for that invisible brotherhood of disaffected youth around the world. Wicked.

Jason Donovan Wallis wiped his moistening pink nose on his sleeve and stared up at the gun-metal sky through the billows of fog. Nothing but grey. Shame. He liked a clear sky. Enjoyed seeing all those stars and planets and meteors and stuff. Not that he was so gay that he wanted to learn anything about the universe. Fuck that. But one day he hoped to meet an alien and be abducted, taken somewhere with a spaceship full of supermodels to colonise a new world. Then he would return in triumph, a split-second after being taken in earth time. He’d be a hero, the most famous man on the planet. Gash would be queuing round the block to screw him then. Safe.

The man placed the boxes onto a blanket then covered them over to keep the food warm. He closed the back doors of the van and returned to the driver’s seat, darting a glance from side to side. The fog rolling down from the Peaks was perfect. No-one was braving the cold on such a filthy night. The streets were already empty. He had them to himself.

He looked at his watch and smiled. The time was near.

He switched on the CD player and closed his eyes to let the soft music flow over him for a moment, then pulled the leather gloves from his hands and placed them on the dashboard. He had on a pair of surgical rubbers already and his hands were clammy so he extracted a container from a hold-all, tapped a little powder on each wrist and shook it down under the surface onto his palms.

Having returned the powder to the hold-all, he placed the bag into the back of the van and picked up the small leather case from the floor and gently drummed his fingers on it, nodding. He looked at his watch again. The time was right. His final contribution was about to begin.

He picked up the brand new mobile the second it began to ring. He thumbed the answer button, lifted the phone to his ear and listened for a second. Then he ended the call, removed the battery and SIM card and placed the pieces in the leather bag for future disposal. He reached for the ignition, turned on the engine and lights and drove away. The time was now.

Jason examined the murky sky. No aliens tonight. Still, no moon meant a good night for teafin’ though there weren’t nothing worth stealing on the Drayfin no more.

He resumed his trudge to The Centre, a moribund sixties complex of boarded shop windows and grim food stores, housed in a cold grey slab of a building, surrounded by dark and windy walkways: the brainchild of an architect who doubtless lived in an ivy-covered cottage in the Peaks.

He peered into the gloom as he walked. What the fuck to do tonight? There were only so many things he could break to sustain his interest and the council had given up replacing the glass in the bus shelters.

Drugs were great but once the free samples from Banger had been toked, it was hard finding the cash to buy. Booze was easy to get but with no money, he’d been forced to apply for a Saturday job, washing cars at the Jap garage. Already the taste of a life turning sour.

There was always sex to take his mind off things, but that was nothing special. Sure he’d bust his cherry last year, at the age of fourteen, but somehow the way it was offered by the slappers at school put him off. He wanted more than to plant it up the downy fuzz box of those slappers followed by all that crap about him being their boyfriend. Even before he’d washed his dick. Fuck that!

Plus they enjoyed it too much for Jason’s liking. Slags! He liked it better when they didn’t want to, even though they really did. They all did. Like in those videos his dad let him watch. They were the best. So was his dad. All his mates said. Their dads got narked about them being out all hours. Not his dad. Jason was dead lucky. He’d hate a dad who did his head in.

Mum could be a drag though. That was women for you. ‘Only good for one thing,’ his dad would say.

‘That’s one more than you then,’ his mum would shout back. There’d be a slanging match after that. Weird. Sometimes his mum seemed tougher than his dad, though Jason knew that couldn’t be right.

The man drove the unfamiliar van slowly along the unfamiliar roads. It didn’t matter. There were no other road users to complain. The only sign of life he’d seen was a foraging cat.

He glanced at the A-Z and peered at the nearest street sign through the waves of fog. He nodded, took a deep breath and turned left. He could sense he was near.

Jason pulled his mobile from his pocket on the first ring. He stared at the display and pulled a face. ‘What?’

‘It’s me. Your mother.’

‘I told you to text me if you need me, woman. I could have been wi’ my mates.’

‘Piss off yer little shit or you won’t have a phone.’

‘Er, likely? What do you want?’

‘We’ve ordered those pizzas we won.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yeah, yer coming back?’

Jason hesitated. It was cold plus he was hungry. ‘Save me some,’ he ordered, before ending the call without waiting for a response.

He walked on, pulling his jacket tighter. He thought again about the film his dad had shown him last week and felt the stirring of a stiffy to warm him. The slag in that film hadn’t seemed keen at first. She’d soon warmed up, mind, after the first two or three geezers had popped her.

Fuckin’ aaay! The best sex he’d ever had was the blow from that girl at the posh school. Fatboy and Grets had picked her up and led her off the footpath by the lane. It was wicked. She hadn’t wanted to either, not at first, but it was clear by the end she was into it. There were a few tears but you expect that.

‘It’s all part of the act,’ his dad said. ‘Bit of attention. Makes ’em feel loved.’ That’s why Jason’s teacher said what she did. Frustrated cow, she was. His dad supported him all the way. He knew about women. Got married at seventeen–though Jason was too young to remember the wedding. Rape Mrs Ottoman? A teacher! Er, likely? Sayin’ it was one thing. Doin’ it was another. All he’d done was feel her up a bit when he grabbed her, but she couldn’t prove nothin’.

Got him suspended from school just the same. A month. Some kind of record Mr Wrexham, the head teacher, said. Not that Jason cared. He loved all the fuss. School was for gays. As soon as he was old enough he’d get himself on the Social and win the lottery. That’d show those fucking teachers, telling him what to do. Jason Wallis looked after Number One. Nobody else mattered. It was the law of the jungle.

‘It’s a hard world out there,’ his dad had said. Not that he’d seen much of it. Bobby Wallis had lived in Derby all his life.

‘Have some fun; play around as long as you can. Don’t let some bitch trap you, son,’ he’d said.

‘Thanks a bundle,’ his mum had replied. ‘Stop filling that boy’s head with crap. It’ll have more in than yours at this rate.’

Funny. His dad had turned to him with that look. See what I mean, son. Keep clear. Sow a few wild oats. Not that I couldn’t walk away any time…

‘Jace!’ shouted Grets from the doorway of the chip shop. The only intact window in the Centre glowed warmly at Jason. Like a moth to flame he headed for the only bright light for miles since the pub had closed its doors and boarded its windows for the last time.

‘Yo!’ shouted Jason back at his friend who also wore the de rigueur baseball cap and Stone Island top, over low slung baggy jeans. These guys knew how to big themselves up.

‘How’s it hanging, man?’ said Jason, with a faint Brooklyn twang–Manchester was out–offering a clenched fist which Grets punched in greeting.

‘Safe, man.’ Grets held out his chips and Jason helped himself.

‘Thanks man. Starving, innit?’

‘Eh! It’s the superstar. How’s it hanging, bro?’ cried another of his crew, Stinger, emerging from the chip shop’s cocoon of light and steam. ‘You’re a Celebrity; get me out of ’ere.’

Jason would’ve tried to look modest if he’d ever had anything to be modest about. Instead he savoured the inner heat stoked by acclamation and basked in his notoriety. It was the only reason to venture out on a bitter December night. He was famous, on the Drayfin at least, and he had to milk the attention before the whole thing blew over.

There’d been something about his suspension in the local rag, but that was two weeks ago. It cracked on about what the world was coming to and why schools had stopped using the cane. Like any kid would stand for that. They got rights, you know.

There was also a snippet on East Midlands Today though Jason’s name hadn’t been mentioned. His dad was hoping they’d let it slip so he could sue the arse off ’em. His dad was dead proud of the family honour.

Then the clincher–his passport to a thousand back-slaps–a brief clip of him strutting out of school with his dad. Everyone local would know who he was.

‘How you coping, man? Bitches still lining up to daisy chain yo ass?’

‘Chill guys. It’s chilling a bit now,’ he said, making more of an effort to be self-effacing.

‘Dread. Wish I’d been there, man,’ grinned Stinger, shaking his head. ‘Tell us what Grottyman did again?’

Jason grinned, feigning a reluctance that lasted no more than a second. ‘She freaked man…’

‘Safe.’

‘…started crying. She’s fucked up, man. Like I’d risk my dick in that dirt track.’

‘Fucking aaay to that, man,’ laughed Grets and they tapped fists.

‘Got any smokes?’ asked Jason, fingering the tab end in his pocket.

‘Nope, we’re busted, man, but I know how we can get some. Banger promised me some gear and some folding in exchange for help with this gig.’

‘Safe,’ drawled Jason. ‘Lead the way, homey.’

The van drew to a halt outside the house and the man got out and stepped to the rear of the van. He wore black overalls and a black peaked cap.

A crack of light from the house fell on the van as a curtain was pulled aside and was gone. The man closed the back doors more carefully than seemed necessary then moved towards the house, well camouflaged against the blackness except for the white boxes in his hands. The door of the house opened.

‘Pizza Parlour?’

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke with a shudder and gathered himself for a moment, eyes clamped shut, damp fists clenched, poised between realities, each one disagreeable. With a mind divided he could escape both, have a foot in neither, bliss, for that second, before he opened his eyes to take in the blankness of his conscious world.

He raised his head from his desk and looked around his spartan office. He scanned the floor and listened. Nothing. No scratching, no telltale scurrying.

He pulled himself upright and massaged his aching neck, then stood to do the same for his back. He checked his watch. Gone midnight. His shift had finished four hours ago. He could have been at home now. Home. He could never resist a smile at the word. What would he do there?

He picked up the phone and yawned, tapped a pencil on his notepad and began to doodle. He moved his head from side to side in a silent Eeny meeny miney mo then punched the keys.

‘Taj Mahal.’

‘I’d like to order a takeaway please.’

‘Hello Mr Brook. How are you tonight?’

‘Never better. I’d like Chicken Jalfrezi…’

‘…and pillau rice. Would you like any bread with that?’

‘Do I ever have bread?’

‘Never.’

‘Well then. How long?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ Brook replaced the receiver and left, closing the door of his office softly. He walked quickly and quietly towards the main entrance.

He was in luck. Sergeant Hendrickson had his back to the counter and Brook was able to slide across the door to Reception without being noticed. He was in the clear and about to stride away when Hendrickson’s voice held him.

‘Bastard! He wants stringing up.’

‘Too right,’ replied a voice. Brook recognised PC Robinson–Hendrickson’s straight man.

‘Well if we get whatever bastard’s done this, you’ll see me at the front of the queue when the knuckle sandwiches are being served up.’

‘Me too.’

Another voice, too indistinct to hear, said something by way of disagreement, judging by Hendrickson’s response.

‘No good at all. But it’ll make me feel a fuck of a lot better.’

Brook stood poised, grimacing, urging himself to make his escape. But he couldn’t let it go. He was a DI. He had rank. He took a deep breath and stepped back in front of the counter. ‘Sergeant.’ All heads turned. ‘I could easily be a member of the public standing here listening to that language,’ he said, with an effort to sound forceful. ‘Or worse the Chief Super…’ He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw WPC Wendy Jones was the third person in the conversation. Their eyes locked briefly before each looked away.

Brook pursed his lips and let the sentence hang, hoping it would appear a natural break. He shouldn’t have said anything. He knew it. He could have been away. His resolve was melting so he pretended to examine the desultory Christmas streamers darted around the ceiling before returning his eyes to Hendrickson.

‘Still here? Sir.’ Sergeant Harry Hendrickson wore the mocking smile he reserved for his dealings with Brook. The pause he took before acknowledging Brook’s seniority was a new technique for him though Brook knew it well enough. It was one he’d used himself when dealing with any Joe or Josephine Public who stimulated his contempt. That was in the days when he could still be stimulated.

‘And people wonder why you didn’t make detective,’ smiled Brook, with a bravado he didn’t feel. Hendrickson’s grin vanished and Brook heard sharp breaths being sucked in. He took one himself and decided he had to play on for all it was worth. ‘Well?’

‘Well what? Sir?’ replied Hendrickson.

‘Foul language and threats of violence. Explain yourself.’ Brook knew he sounded lame. Hendrickson sensed it. He found his mocking smile again and stared back at Brook with unconcealed hatred.

PC Robinson decided to step in. ‘There’s been a murder, sir. Some old dear. Strangled and beaten to death.’

‘I see…’ began Brook.

‘And some of us with mothers get very hot under the collar,’ spat Hendrickson, ‘when we see what some scumbags will do for a few quid. Sir!’

There was a crackling silence that prompted even WPC Jones to look up for Brook’s reaction. When it came, it surprised even Hendrickson. Brook smiled a sad little smile and nodded. ‘Who took the call?’

‘DI Greatorix was on duty, sir,’ said Robinson.

‘Right.’ Brook turned from Hendrickson’s triumphant grin and his eyes sought the floor. A second later he spun back to face Hendrickson, trying to get control of his voice. ‘Some of us who had mothers also got hot under the collar, sergeant, until we realised those feelings made us worse policemen who couldn’t do their job properly. I may not find your language offensive in itself but it’s a symptom of a mind that’s not under control.’ Brook paused before adding softly, ‘And control is what they pay us for.’

Hendrickson’s grin remained but it had lost some of its wattage. Now it was Robinson’s turn to look at the floor as Jones looked up at Brook. He, in turn, permitted himself a brief dart towards her eyes and fancied he detected a scintilla of approval in her expression. He couldn’t hold the look for long and turned away, throwing a ‘Good night’ over his shoulder as he left.

Brook walked away more calmly than he felt, listening for the telltale mutter and laugh that signalled some further insult. It arrived, as usual, as Brook rounded the corner and descended the stairs to the car park. He shook his head.

‘Why didn’t I just slip away? Why?’

‘Who does that twat think he is?’ spat Hendrickson. ‘Fucking London ponce.’

‘He’s from Yorkshire originally,’ offered Jones, not looking at either of her colleagues. This was a subject best avoided.

‘Yeah. So what the fuck was he doing in the Met then?’

Jones took a breath and looked straight back at Hendrickson to signal her final say on the matter. ‘He was some kind of rising star, they say. The best criminal profiler on the Force. Until he got sick.’

The portly figure of PC Aktar walked in. ‘Come on, my duck. Let’s get out there,’ he said to Jones. ‘We’ve got a city to look after.’

‘Coming.’

‘Sick my arse. I’ve seen his file. He had a fucking breakdown. So what’s he doing here then?’ asked Hendrickson. ‘I’ll tell you what he’s doing here, my girl…’

‘I’m not your girl…’

‘…he couldn’t hack it in the Met, see. A college boy who thought he could do a better job than us ordinary coppers but he couldn’t handle it, could he? So what happens?’ He glanced at Robinson as though he wouldn’t continue unless people insisted then carried on a split-second later. ‘We have to take him off their hands, don’t we? Why? Because Derbyshire’s a second class county and we can make do with middle-aged burn-outs who are treading water until they retire. That’s why. We’re shit and he’s better than us so we should all bow down and kiss his arse.’

‘Sounds like fun, sarge,’ laughed Robinson.

Hendrickson smiled back at him. ‘Ai. It’s true though, innit? And there’s not a copper in this nick who doesn’t agree with me.’

‘He does his job,’ chipped in Jones, on her way out.

Hendrickson smirked. ‘I might have known you’d defend him.’

‘What does that mean?’ flashed back Jones, her colour rising, though she knew only too well.

This time Robinson joined in with a leer. ‘We all know he’s your boyfriend, Wendy.’

‘He is not my boyfriend,’ she replied through gritted teeth, ‘I danced with him once and he gave me a lift home. Nothing happened. How many times?’

‘Would that be a fireman’s lift?’ asked Hendrickson. He and Robinson cackled as Jones headed for the corridor.

‘Piss off the pair of you.’

‘Please try and control your language, constable,’ Hendrickson shouted after her. ‘Your boyfriend might hear you.’

As they headed for the car park, Aktar kept his eyes trained on Jones, waiting for the explanation. She ignored him for a few moments then, without looking at him, said, ‘Not a bloody word.’

Brook pushed through the heavy metal door at the foot of the stairs and stepped into the artificial half-light. It was cold and dark, the chill winter’s day having left a permanent freezing damp coating the ground. Brook shivered and pulled the collar of his overcoat up.

As was his custom, he stepped into the middle of the ramp to get to his car. He couldn’t go near other cars. He needed space between himself and any obstacles. There’d been a rat once. So now Brook trod a path equidistant from both lines of vehicles.

He reached his old sports car, all the while scanning the floor for movement. He opened the creaky door and launched himself onto the cracked leather seat to avoid being nipped on the ankle by a stray psychotic rodent. He felt like a child launching himself into bed to escape the talons of the Bogey Man skulking below. He didn’t care.

As he swung his battered Austin Healey Sprite out of the car park, Brook was appalled at its throaty din. The reverberations of the old car’s straining engine clattered against the dark structures gathered around Derby’s Police Headquarters and were flung back at Brook in a fit of pique by the empty office building across the road.

What a racket. He was aware of it now, once the bustle of the day had long departed. The roar he savoured with a connoisseur’s pleasure on a sunny Sunday drive in the Peaks made him wince in the echo chamber of the night. It was a cacophony that could have shattered the walls of Jericho, had the biblical city been no more than a 50 mile round trip from Derby.

Brook picked up his takeaway and was home in a few minutes, one of the advantages of living in a city as small as Derby. A quick trip round the inner ring road past the Eagle Centre, skirting the new shopping precinct, and Brook was back at his down-at-heel rented flat on the Uttoxeter Road.

It wasn’t much of a front but it was as good a place as any. And it was central. No Barrett home in a suburban development for Brook. No tasselled sofa and MFI flat packs. Brook was used to city living, where he could be quiet and anonymous: unless, of course, he was driving the Sprite home after midnight when everyone could mark his progress through the streets. Not that he cared about disturbing people. Like all insomniacs, he assumed everyone else slept like babies.

Brook slowed the Sprite to a crawl and carefully manoeuvred the delicate bodywork onto the pavement-cum-drive outside his ground floor flat. He killed the engine, heard the fan belt call a cranky halt to its day’s work and stepped out of the driver’s seat holding his Chicken Jalfrezi, listening to the pre-ignition running before the engine finally died. He closed the door gingerly, not bothering to lock it.

Instinctively he turned to the upstairs window of the flats next door in time to see the curtain fall. Brook nodded, satisfied. Old Mrs Saunders probably slept less than he did. He supposed she’d be having ‘a word’ with him tomorrow about ‘all that noise in the middle of the night’. Comforting really, having such a busybody keeping an eye on the place. Not that he bothered about security. He had nothing of value. But then again, he was a policeman and, as such, was as interested as Mrs Saunders in the ‘comings and goings’, if only out of a kind of default curiosity.

Brook hesitated before going in. He wanted a cigarette. He’d gone without for two days. He extracted a dog-eared pack from the boot of the car and flipped open the box. One left. That was good. And bad. If he were still in Battersea, he could have gone for more, any time of night. But he wasn’t. He was in Derby and it was closed.

Brook lit up and inhaled deeply, enjoying the sting and feeling an immediate and gratifying nausea. He stood by his car and looked out over the building site across the road and on, past the sweep of Derby’s low horizon. There wasn’t much to be seen. It was a dark, misty night and cold air was blowing down from the Peaks.

For the first time in the three years since his transfer, Brook was beginning to look at the skyline like an old friend. He hadn’t chosen Derby as a place to live and work. He’d picked up the first available transfer out of London. If it had been to Baghdad he would have taken it. Just to get out.

And Derby hadn’t let him down. It was a pleasingly unremarkable place to lose himself. An engineering town by tradition, which marked out the population as hard working and straightforward, it also boasted a large and well-integrated Asian population.

Frank Whittle, pioneer of the jet engine, was much honoured in a city where Rolls Royce was the main employer. Derby also had one of the largest railway engineering works in the world. It was a city built on transport, going nowhere. Obligatory retail parks ringed the city and much of the population and traffic had followed, making Brook’s neighbourhood, if not any more glamorous, then certainly a little quieter.

And despite the inevitable decline of such an industry-dependent city, crime was not excessive and murder was rare.

But what really marked out this East Midlands backwater was the Peak District, a few miles to the northwest. Brook had fallen in love with it and took every opportunity he could to drive into the hills and soak up the peace of the countryside. Ashbourne, Hartington, Buxton, Bakewell, Carsington Water. All were favoured haunts, where he could dump the car and walk for hours alone, clearing his mind of all the clutter.

And now, as a bonus, he was discovering a sense of belonging. That was good. It would prepare him for the biggest challenge of all; retrieving a sense of himself.

For the first time since joining the Met as a callow, yet confident twenty-three-year old, Brook began to believe that it might be possible to wash the garbage from mind and body. Now, here, he was only wading in the gutter. In London he’d been drowning in a sewer.

Chapter Two

Brook took a final urgent drag and tossed the cigarette. He walked up the communal access road and unlocked the back door into the kitchen of his flat. He never used the front door as it opened into his living room, a quaint reminder of a childhood spent in a back-to-back terrace, with which he wasn’t comfortable. Memories of strange, rubicund men collecting rent or insurance and breathing light ale fumes into his pram were still keenly felt forty-odd years on.

He looked briefly at the answer machine. For once it was flashing so he played the message. It was from Terri, his daughter, wishing ‘a happy birthday for tomorrow to my number one dad’, her nickname for him since acquiring a second father. She’d moved with her mother and ‘number two dad’ to Brighton after the divorce. Brook didn’t wipe the brief message but left the machine flashing to remind him to ring her.

It didn’t sit well with Brook that a father should need a reminder to talk to an only daughter and his unexpected good mood soured as a result. He looked at his watch. It was his birthday. He could see the single envelope on the mat by the front door. He left it there.

After picking at his curry and downing a celebratory glass of milk, he showered and went to bed. He remembered to leave a little food by the flap, in case Cat tired of its nocturnal foraging, and lay down to read in his box-sized bedroom, head grazing one wall, feet flat against the other for the warmth from the radiator on the other side.

For a change, sleep came quickly, though it rarely lasted beyond an hour. And too often it would be an hour of visions exploding across his brain. Some he could recognise, some he couldn’t. Then sometimes, on a case, he would see something–a face, a crime scene, a piece of evidence–and recall an echo of it in a dream he’d already had. It bothered Brook at first until he’d been able to write it off to the Job. The things he’d seen were enough to fever any brow.

Tonight even the concession of one fitful hour was withdrawn and he woke to the noise of the phone a few moments later. It was DS John Noble.

‘Sir, you’re awake.’

A sigh was Brook’s only answer. ‘What’s up, John?’

‘Murder, sir. A bad one.’

‘Bad as in poorly executed or bad as in not nice?’

‘The latter I think,’ replied Noble, making a conscious effort to impress with his vocabulary. Eighteen months hanging on to DI Brook’s coat tails had taught Noble three things. ‘Avoid swearing, John, in my presence at least. Try to speak proper English, if you know any. And most important, don’t ever call me guv.’

‘DI Greatorix should be dealing but he’s already on a call.’

‘So he is. Where are you?’

‘ASBO-land.’

Brook let out a heavy sigh of frustration. ‘John, if you’re on the Drayfin, just say so.’

‘I’m on the Drayfin Estate.’

‘What’s the address?’ Brook jotted it down. At this time of night it wouldn’t take him long to get to the rundown housing estate on the south side of the city, built in the sixties when Britain’s city planners had decided that people were keen to live cheek by jowl in identical, low-cost boxes. It was little surprise to Brook that residents in such areas attracted more than their fair share of Anti-Social Behaviour Orders. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

Fifteen minutes later the noise from Brook’s Sprite ensured that those houses on the Drayfin Estate still in darkness were fully alerted to the commotion in their midst, and soon switches were being flicked and curtains twitched.

If he spent much more time driving around in the middle of the night, the National Grid would be inviting him to the staff parties. The idea brought a brief smile to Brook’s lips. A pity he couldn’t introduce such levity into his dealings with others, he thought.

Brook was mulling over the comedic potential of his future transactions with Sergeant Hendrickson when, without warning, he jumped onto the brakes. The car shuddered to an unconvincing halt. Seconds later a black and white cat hurtled across the path of the Sprite and skittered away into the mist, a pink tail hanging from its mouth.

Brook exhaled heavily and, fully awake now, pulled over to the huddle outside Number 233–a small red brick semi-detached–as an ambulance was pulling away. He killed the engine, aware of looks and smiles exchanged between the knot of uniformed constables attempting to keep warm on the verge outside the house.

He wondered if the earlier incident with Hendrickson had been thrown into the mix for general sport. Such disputes spread like wildfire amongst the smaller, close knit stations and D Division was no exception.

A young man stepped from the throng. Detective Sergeant Noble was a good looking, fit twenty-seven year old who took a keen interest in his own advancement. Apart from a regulation-stretching blond mop, parted in the middle, he was smartly presented, even at this late hour. The contrast with his own hurriedly assembled and shapeless clothing wasn’t lost on Brook.

‘Evening, John–or rather morning.’ Noble nodded but Brook could tell he wasn’t his usual ebullient self because he fidgeted with his latex gloves, not meeting Brook’s eye. ‘Have you puked, John?’ he enquired with a hint of mockery.

‘No sir.’ A pause. ‘Not yet.’

‘Who was that in the ambulance?’

‘PC Aktar, sir. He was first on the scene. He fainted.’

‘Causing great hilarity amongst his colleagues no doubt.’ Despite himself Brook took a little comfort from this alternative explanation for the smirks that had greeted his arrival. ‘Is it that bad, John?’

‘Not so much to look at. I’ve seen worse. It’s just…’ he tailed off and looked at the floor.

‘Is the PS in there?’ asked Brook.

‘The surgeon’s been delayed.’

Brook raised an eyebrow then nodded. ‘Right, the other murder. And SOCO?’

‘Same.’

‘A fresh crime scene. Talk me through it.’

‘The family’s name is Wallis.’

Brook narrowed his eyes in recognition. ‘Bobby Wallis. Yes. Petty theft and an ABH. General scourge if memory serves. Which one is it?’

‘Well.’ Noble looked round as though he were afraid of making a fool of himself before turning back to Brook. ‘There are four bodies.’

‘Four?’ Brook fixed his DS with a stare. A long-buried echo sounded in the vaults of his heart, quickening its beat. He ignored Noble’s faint nod and ran his bottom lip underneath his upper teeth, a gesture of calculation that he hoped would mask his unease. ‘Go on.’

‘Bobby Wallis, his wife we’re assuming, plus his daughter–Kylie–and a baby. One survivor. The son. Jason Wallis. He was out cold and a strong smell of booze on him. Could be drugs as well. He’s gone off to hospital.’ Brook turned to Noble with his eyebrow cocked. ‘He’s under guard,’ answered Noble. ‘But there are no obvious bloodstains on his hands or clothes. And if he was in there…’ Noble looked away.

Brook nodded then looked around as though a cigarette vendor might recognise his need and come forward with a pack. It seemed he was about to make one of those periodic visits to hell that he’d moved to Derby to escape. Months of stultifying boredom, interspersed with sporadic journeys through the entrails of the human condition, Brook a mute witness to the black hole of depravity and despair that sucked all virtuous emotion from him. Black. The colour of man’s heart. The colour invisible in the night. The colour of old blood.

‘Witnesses?’

‘A neighbour across the street, Mrs Patel, says she saw a white van make a delivery. Around 8.15. There are pizza boxes from Pizza Parlour inside so it looks legit. She remembered a partial plate. I’ve put it out on the wire. No hits yet.’

‘Score one for the busybodies. Are you checking with Pizza Parlour?’

‘They’re closed but we’re running it down. Do you think it’s important?’

‘Yes. The van’s wrong. In my experience most pizza deliveries are done on a moped. If Pizza Parlour did have a van, they’d have their livery all over it.’

‘So why would our nosy neighbour not see that if she can remember a partial?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ve been onto Traffic to be on the lookout on all the major roads.’

‘Good. Give it to the motorway boys as well though he may be long gone. And tell them we’ll need to look at all the CCTV for our time slot.’

Brook waited while Noble got on the radio to Dispatch, all the while scanning the uniformed officers for the chance to bum a cigarette. But no-one would light up until the senior officer had disappeared into the house.

Noble rejoined Brook. ‘Well, let’s take a peek, John.’ And with that Brook attached his mental blinkers and concentrated fully on Noble’s brisk summary as they walked towards the front door.

‘The next door neighbour found them, sir. A Mr Singh. He came round at about half past twelve to complain about noise–loud music–the front door was ajar so he walked into the front room and there they all were. Apart from the son–Jason–who was flat out in the kitchen.’

‘How were they killed?’

‘Throats cut, and, well, you can see for yourself. You won’t believe it.’ Noble’s recollection began to gnaw at his composure. His features adopted the pained squint of a man holding on to himself, so useful at funerals.

Brook stopped and almost to himself echoed his DS. ‘Throats cut.’ Then with a turn of the head he roused himself to keep step with Noble. ‘I’ll believe anything where people are concerned, John.’

‘The weird thing is the victims were just sat there, facing the telly, like they were watching Big Brother’

‘Big…?’

Noble looked at Brook with a momentary puzzled expression then looked away, realising his mistake. ‘Big Brother. It’s a TV programme, sir. Very popular, with ordinary people, I understand.’

Brook caught the undertone of Noble’s gibe with a flush of pleasure. He was learning a healthy disrespect for superiors. It would make him a better copper. ‘Please don’t explain the tastes of the nation to me, John, I’m tired. Sitting around the TV like a normal family, you say.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Since when has it been normal for a family to sit down together–as a family. Not since the golden age of Ovaltine and Dick Barton.’

‘Dick Barton?’

‘The radio. Or the wireless, to be strictly accurate.’

Noble nodded. ‘You mean kids have a TV in their own room…’

‘Or their own music or computer. The point being, never fail to question what initially hits you as normal. Families rarely socialise as a unit these days.’ A sliver of personal grief deformed Brook’s features for a second and was gone.

‘So having the family in one place is part of the MO. The killer’s staged it.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Well that would rule out Jason as the perp.’ Noble was conscious of his gaffe before he’d finished the word and prepared himself for Brook’s disapproval.

Instead Brook smiled thinly and looked him briefly in the eye. ‘Perp? Have you got indigestion, John?’

Noble smiled back.

They stopped at the Wallis front door. It was open. Noble handed Brook a pair of latex gloves which he pulled on.

‘Was the front door forced?’

‘No obvious sign of it.’

‘How many have tramped through already?’

‘Besides myself, PC Aktar and the neighbour, Mr Singh. Also the ambulance crew had to stretcher Jason out from the kitchen.’

‘What about Aktar? Where was he?’

‘He fainted out here.’

‘Did he? That’s interesting.’

‘Delayed